The Statistic
by ismokecrackama
Summary: The last thoughts of one soldier killed before the final battle at the Hometree. Oneshot, please review!


**Hey Guys, whats up Dawgs. :P**

**Anyways, I decided add a bit to this oneshot here and there. I really hope you guys like it, please send me feedback, it iz awesomez :D:D:D:D:D:D:D**

**Keep rocking everyone**

The man groaned. Stepping out from the shade of a tree, his eyes sharply adjusted to the light, causing him to wince.

He was a fit, broad shouldered man. His exopack and uniform was stained with blood, some of it belonged to him, some belonged to others. A bandage was wrapped around his right arm, white clashing with the red of the blood pouring from the gash underneath. His eyes, once bright and full of life, now seemed grey and unfocused. He held loosely in one hand, a CARB base unit. It's round drum was half full, or half empty, depending on his point of view.. The digital ammo counter had long since been smashed by something, and was frozen at 57/80 rounds. His other hand held a wad of dog tags. Exactly 25, no less, no more. His own dangled from his neck. _Mathew Wagner, _it read. From his hip dangled a polished 44. magnum. A gift from his father before setting out to Pandora. The three stripes on his shoulder, revealed him to be a sergeant.

Mathew looked around him. The scene hadn't changed for the last few hours. Was only a matter of time before the natives arrived to collect their dead. "Probably leave them to rot." he mumbled, looking at the mass of butchered marines lying in bloody heaps across the jungle floor.

There were a few dead natives. A few who had just died a few hours ago from their wounds.

He was a dead man. This he knew. Hundreds of miles from Hell's gates, billions from home, with only static on the radio, he knew death was watching him. His scythe sharpened, staring at him with soulless, empty eyes. This was simply a fact now.

The cause of the death of his men was the Na'vi, but the reason he was even out here was the fault of bad organization and support.

The problem with the hierarchy back at hell's gates was that nobody wanted this patrol. It was a death sentence. Wagner's team drew the short straw and got tossed out here. They broke the record. Two days short of two weeks without getting killed. Two more days and their rotation in this shithole and they would have been off to an easy job, something like being security for the canteen.

If the air support had came...

But it didn't. All of the birds were busy being prepped for a full on assault on the natives. Even then, they were just one fire team. They weren't worth the risk of losing valuable aircraft.

Wagner understood this. He still thought it was bullshit.

His team had just been butchered, and nobody came to help. They all died...

...why shouldn't he?

Maybe it would be more convenient just to do it himself. Quick, painless, why shouldn't he?

It would be easy. One bullet, fired into the head. It would be all over.

Was here any reason not to?

Wagner raised his revolver to his head, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened except the click of an empty gun.

He burst out laughing.

"That right there men," he said, as if giving a speech to his deceased comrades. "Is an act of God. Now, can any of you tell me why God did save my life?"

Wagner paused, as if waiting for the answer that would never come.

"Payback." he whispered, "That's why."

All 25 of the men under his command had died today. Every single one of em. Watkins, Jerome, Ivan, even that tough son of a bitch Rodriguez. The blues came outta the woodwork. It was like Custer's last stand all over again.

He might be able to take a native down with him, maybe two. All just more statistics. More on the list of lives claimed on this god forsaken rock.

He walked over to one of the corpses.

_Name: Pfc. Gerald Truman._

_Gender: Male._

_Age: 21+Cryosleep_

_Height: 5'10''_

_Weight: 144 lbs_

_Role: Bravo team medic._

_TO BE FILLED OUT BY C.O IN CASE OF DEATH:_

_Cause of death: Disembowelment, loss off right leg._

Wagner remembered all of the Basic Information Cards issued to his team. He had filled the last line of each of them himself.

_Cpl. Jerome Thomas_

_Gender: Male_

_Age:27+cryosleep_

_Height:6'0''_

_Weight: 189 lbs_

_Role: Support gunner_

_TO BE FILLED OUT BY C.O IN CASE OF DEATH:_

_Cause of death: Blow to the head, Caved in skull._

Wagner had a flurry of emotions passing through his brain as he remembered these men. Pain, sadness, confusion, and anger where the predominant ones. For a man well experienced in war, he was not doing well.

Well, under the circumstances, maybe he was. He didn't know. All he knew was that he was alive, soon to be dead. And it made him mad, the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to stay alive, that he would die, here, in the middle of a death world.

"Are you fucking happy yet?" he screamed at no one.

He fired the remaining rounds in his magazine into a random tree. Wildlife dove for cover, scuttling from the noise and light. Seeing the animals flee made Mathew snap out of his rage.

" Matt, you idiot. Now they know you're here." he muttered

His anger had pretty much been subdued in his head. It was replaced by a deep longing to live, to see earth again, to see his friends, family. All of them, sitting around, eating pizza from Tony's down the street. He missed all of it. Why in the hell did he leave that for this?

Perhaps it was his calling. Like the guy who ran off to the woods in Call of the Wild. Something like that. Call of the FUBAR hellhole out in god fucking knows where. Yeah. Irresistible.

He laughed. " Matty, my boy, you bit off more then you could chew." He laughed again.

He definitely did. And now he was gonna pay for hit.

He looked dully at his revolver. He reconsidered ending it, right there, right then. No more pain, no more suffering. The easy way out. It was tempting, so very tempting. But Mathew knew he had a responsibility to avenge some of his men. A sacred trust.

"Dammit, I'm not letting them down."

But there really wasn't much he could do. He was on the Native's home turf. What could he do.

Nothing.

He caught the first native as he was clambering over a fallen tree. Reactions took over from common sense, and he fired a burst of fire from his CARB. The native took the rounds to the gut. It dropped, writhing in pain.

The second has all luck. The blueskin had snuck up behind him. Wagner just happened to turn around to look for cover. A couple of rounds hit the native in the shoulder, spinning it around as the rest hit it in the back.

The weapon clicked.

The ammo indicator may have been smashed, but one didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that the gun was empty.

Wagner cursed under his breath as he fumbled on his belt for another magazine. He was out of the 80 round drums, he was down to a 30 round mag.

"Fuck!" he swore, as the mag slipped from his grasp and landed on the forest floor.

He leaned over to pick it up. As he stood up, he turned around.

He barely saw it coming.

The arrow hit him, sending him sprawling on his back.

It stuck out of his gut like an oversized pin in his mother's pincushion. He felt the impact first, then the pain. He gritted his teeth.

The poison was working quickly, he could feel it. His CARB rifle was fallen a few meters away from him. All he had was his Magnum. He could see the native who had shot him. He was walking forward to check his kill. Take the arrow.

He raised his revolver at the native. His finger tightened on the trigger.

He hesitated. The native was staring, wide eyed at him, not expecting the little human to be still alive.

But it was because of those eyes, that he hesitated.

Maybe those... Na'vi weren't that different.

Maybe they where defending their home turf.

Would killing this one change anything?

The answer was simple.

No.

So there the man died. Revolver in one hand, the dog tags of his teamthe other. They never found his body. But it didn't matter. Things played out as they did. Because this man wasn't Mathew Wagner.

No, he was but a statistic.


End file.
